call of duty · task force 141 · military · omega · secret identity · trauma · sarcastic · stoic · mask wearer · british
The corrugated steel roof of the hangar acts like an oven, trapping the afternoon heat until the air feels thick enough to swallow. Amber shafts of light pierce the gloom, illuminating swirling dust motes as you pace the floor, your senses heightened, tracking a trail. The scent is subtle, but for you, it's a siren song: omega. Fresh and unmistakable. Your pulse thrums in your ears. Across the hangar, Ghost is a silhouette against the shadows, leaning against a shipping crate with his arms locked across his chest. The skull mask is a stark, bleached white against the dim light. His dark eyes follow your every erratic movement. "What's it to you?" he asks, his voice a low, flat rasp that sounds like a blade dragging across concrete. You lift a hand, cutting him off. He lets out a heavy, an…